


Tasseomancy

by high_life



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Cartomancy, F/M, First Time, Slow Sex, Tasseomancy, magical flirting, tea leaf readings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 01:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17972147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_life/pseuds/high_life
Summary: ;divination with tea leavesOrigin: Frenchtasse (“cup”) + - mancy (“divination”)





	Tasseomancy

The gloves feel foreign in her hands, like precious jewels recovered from some sort of ancient site. She almost didn’t dare to touch them too heavily — lest the white silk damage or mark between her worn fingers. They mirrored their owner _perfectly,_ she thinks. Delicately intricate, smooth, not a fibre out of place. _Mysterious._

She readies herself with a slow intake of breath.

It was late, much past the usual time she would be wandering around the old, dusty town and most certainly not on her own. Sometimes she finished at ten, eleven o’clock behind the bar of the Parlour House that sat on top of the sprawling hill, but she never dared to find herself straying from the familiar lights. No, she’d normally be wrapped up in her sheets at this hour; her body weary from hours on her feet, her mouth dry from drunken conversations with old, decaying men.

But he’d been _different_.

Like an apparition from a glossy advertisement, he’d drifted into the parlour in the evening warmth, a perfectly tailored suit and straw boater hat placed just _right._ He’d removed it, then, to reveal smoothly slicked back hair, and once in the light, she could see the way his expressive eyebrows quirked and matched his equally manicured moustache.

He was nothing short of _dashing_.

Men like him, she thinks, didn’t stray too far from the big towns and most certainly didn’t appear out of thin air, lithe body propped up on the side of her bar. She had watched as eyes twinkled with a mischievousness she hadn’t been privy to in any type of man before; maybe he was just that, a type onto himself. Like nothing or no one she had ever seen.

And he had talked to her.

_Really_ talked to her – as if she existed as a person, and not just a pretty face behind a bar. She’d placed a cool wine in front of him, watched as gloved fingers slid up and down the delicate stem. Held her attention. Asked all her manner of things – what a _lovely,_ bright young thing was doing here in Rhodes, what she did with her spare time, had she read any good books lately. She’d almost blushed from head to toe with each question, thankful the parlour hadn’t been busy at all and she wasn’t pulled away by unwanted attention. And those _eyes_ ; oh, how they _sparkled_.

At some point in the night she had turned her back or bent down or taken her attention briefly elsewhere – if only for the smallest of moments, lest she miss the way his hands were playfully shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards he had produced from his pocket – and then, as suddenly as he had appeared, his long strides were taking him across the room and to the faces of two, rougher looking men. They were more the kind she was used to, with clothes dusty from the street and well-worn pants tattered where they rubbed against saddles upon horses. She’d thought nothing of it, of course. Gathered he had been there for some sort of business, that obviously didn’t include her. But she’d been disappointed. Already feeling a little less brighter without the man’s presence.

Until, long after the night had finished and the doors had been shut, she’d found his _gloves_.

There was a quickness to her movements then and she found herself grabbing her things with a rush of energy and words left over her shoulder to the Madam, pleading with her not to tell a soul where she was going. She hadn’t caught the way the older woman had looked after her; like she knew exactly what she was doing, what she wanted to do. A wistful kind of smile.

Outside she’d found a straggler, a half drunk regular that was by all accounts harmless, but knew the town better than his own hand. She’d flicked the gloves excitedly at him, caught his attention, begged for information. And somehow, with all the luck in the world, she’d found the mysterious man was staying right around the corner.

Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth.

It had sounded so much _easier_ in her head.

A cluster of caravans sprawls out in front of her, a warm fire lighting the central area and vagabonds of people drifting in and out. A working, _smart_ girl like herself would never even dare to cross the threshold on a normal day, let alone late night. But this _hadn’t_ been a normal night.

Far from it.

With a shaky press of her boots over the rough ground she makes one step, two steps and then tries to push her head high, shoulders back as if she had someplace to be. Well, she did have somewhere to be; she just wasn’t sure if it had been an entirely _good_ idea. The texture of the gloves spurs her on.

She knows she has to see him again.

The caravans look almost warm, inviting to her virgin eyes. Like little ornaments hung from a Christmas tree with their inner, soft glow illuminating curtained windows and quaint flower boxes. There’s a lilting sort of tune from a harmonica between a man’s hands to her left and she thinks, almost, it’s like a little community. A home. But not one that seems suits the man her mind tries desperately to hold an accurate picture of; with a shiver she remembers his face. The way his eyes had danced at her. The quirk of his moustache. There was obviously more, behind every little flick of his features, than he was willing to reveal.

Just _yet_.

Her body trembles in anticipation.

She realises, then, that there is a shadow moving in one of the windows and she peers closer, steps around the campfire and the people that seem to pay her no mind at all. Her head tilts and then _yes_ – with quickness her heart begins to flutter and clutter against her chest and her palms feel warm all of a sudden and she’s sure, so very sure, that he’s inside.

It takes all her inner strength to pull her hand to knock at the wooden door. To ignore the way the footsteps stop, suddenly, as if he can see her already.

She draws in another breath.

Breathes out.

And then with a whoosh of air she’s flooded with warm light.

“ _Oh_.”

Deep, hazel eyes crinkle gently at the corners and the man looks at her, with hat long gone and jacket discarded somewhere, his shirt uncuffed and pushed up his arms. She thinks he looks softer, more relaxed than he had in the parlour. Like a man in the comfort of his home. He smiles. _Warmly_.

“I must say, I wasn’t expecting quite _this_ on my doorstep.“ His words don’t seem to match the glimmer in his eyes and it washes over her like a tingling wave, like he knew _exactly_ the way her insides had been trembling and buzzing with some sort of excitement; the kind of excitement she was scared to admit. An excitement, she concludes, that was not very _lady_ like at all.

There’s a pause then as his body rests against the door frame and without thinking she thrusts the gloves in front her.

“You left these behind — “ She tries to start, curses her voice for sounding so uncertain and timid when all she wanted to be was something even a tiny bit admirable under his gaze. “ — at the parlour house, I mean to say.”

The man tilts his head to one side. As if giving the gloves a true, contemplative thought. Her cheeks burn suddenly.

“Ah _yes_ ,” he finally says in growing recognition and, before she has to chance to react properly, he reaches out to pluck them softly from her hands, fingers _just_ grazing hers. Warm eyes settle on her again. And _dance_. “I should’ve known I would forget _some_ little thing, given the company I had the pleasure of keeping tonight.”

She wants to nod her head dully, to agree that the men she’d seen him saunter off with must’ve been far more interesting than sitting at the bar, drink in hand. But the man holds her gaze so strongly, so firmly that she realises a little slowly that he means _her_.

" _Oh_ ,” is all she can say in reply as she mirrors his own previous expel of breath. The heat that traps under her dress collar and thrums up and down her body is so powerful, so overwhelming she almost feels like she’s looking at him through a deep, thick humidity, like the kind that raises off the train tracks on a hot summer’s day and sizzles into the air. She knows, very deeply inside, that it wasn’t right of her to be throwing herself on the doorsteps of strange men at the stroke of midnight. That a man, as dandy and well dressed as he may look, was still a man and that young, naive women like her shouldn’t be dreaming of being in the same vicinity, let alone considering the possibility of stepping over the threshold.

And yet, she _wants_ it. Finds herself drawn by the electric kind of _magic_ that seems to radiate off him.

“Well then,” his voice is softer, if she thought such a thing could be possible. “I can’t very well leave you outside for the wolves, now can I?”

It’s not a question at all and she watches as he straightens his long limbs and spreads the door open wider and then he’s beckoning her inside and she’s _accepting_.

She’s aware, then, of the delicious sort of scent that wafts off the man as she passes him with boots tapping over the door frame, something that reminds her of foreign spices and English gardens in Spring and dark, woody offices with freshly minted paper all together at once. It’s tantalising, teasing, _seducing_.

“I shouldn’t stay too long,” she finds the words leaving her almost as if they were carried on a non-existent breeze, like they didn’t belong to her at all.

The inside of the caravan is inviting to every single of her senses; there’s the moisture of a bath freshly drained hanging in the air, the sound of the harmonica feeling far away outside, the rich colours of the walls, fabrics, rugs tickling her in ways she didn’t think possible. Her eyes drift over the surfaces, catch on a gold pocket watch, a half unpacked bag, various effects belonging to the man.

A shiver runs over her skin. A _good_ kind of shiver.

“Shouldn’t, wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ ,” his voice is next to her, floorboards creaking underneath his impossibly shined shoes. “Words _not_ to live by, don’t you think?”

The man smiles again, twitches his moustache. Looks at her with that same, deep kind of _magic_ she doesn’t know quite what to do with.

Her hands don’t seem to know where they should be and she thinks she probably looks nervous, out of place. As if he had read her internally slipping thoughts he moves, long strides taking him to the stove top where teabags sit waiting to be dipped.

Like he had _expected_ company.

“I do hope you like your tea strong — “ voice carries over the small space. “ — with milk, to dull the taste perhaps?”

She nods noncommittally, if only to push time forward, and watches with back turned as the man delicately pours a cup, then two, from a steaming teapot.

There’s a brief moment where she wonders where the gloves that had brought her here in the first place had disappeared to, if he had simply tucked them into his pocket — though she can’t imagine him wanting to crinkle the delicate fabric in such a way — or left them on the small, wooden table by the door. It was as if they had simply vanished into thin air, ceasing to exist once their purpose had been served. The idea settles in her stomach with the kind of happenstance she normally reserves for well worn books kept beside her bed; the kind full of wizards and witches and _supernatural_ folk alike.

But then the man is striding back towards her with teacups sitting perfectly on fine saucers and she pushes the thought to the back of her mind, if only to focus on the never ending twinkle in his eyes.

“There we are,” he says, and she thinks his body hovers closer to her before. There’s the unmistakable, sudden scent of freshly washed linen and she forgets, momentarily, the unusual concoction he had smelt of only minutes before. The crispness fills her nostrils as hands pass her the teacup.

“Thank you, Mr. — “ she stops, then, with faltering words. Realises she hadn’t even had the decency to ask the man his name. Embarrassment flushes her system.

 “I think _Josiah_ will do just fine,” he glitters a smile.

There’s a certain kind of way he watches her over the brim of his cup as they both take a warm sip, as if waiting to see if a path will open up before him with her as the chosen tollkeeper. She can see it then, the undeniable _glint_ that she had been _very much_ denying every step, if only because she couldn’t quite believe it. The man seemed too refined, too polished for wanting anything to do with her - a simple bar maid, with hair frizzing in the humidity of the night, freckles splaying across her nose from too many afternoons spent in the sun.

Her skin prickles in a pleasant, rolling sensation.

“Alright then, _Josiah_ ,” she settles it softly. And feels a special type of pride when he hums in approval around the edges of his teacup.

She’s aware, then, that they’re standing in the middle of the caravan with cups and saucers handled delicately in either hand, and she glances around to find not a single chair nor lounge. Rather, the only surface worth sitting on was the bed built into the back, with ornate wood decorating the edges and curtains tied primly to either side.

“I hope you don’t think it too _presumptuous_ of me,” the china clinks together gently after he takes a long sip, and she knows he saw _exactly_ beneath her look. “But would you care to — “

“  —  _Yes_.” she doesn’t wait. “I’d love to sit down.”

Courage fills her system as she looks at him with purpose, sudden determination - determined to do _what_ , exactly, she’s not quite sure of yet.

Those eyes she’s quickly growing fond of glimmer again.

“Then please,” he says, and moves then with a graceful air that doesn’t belay a building eagerness, or the way he gently — oh _so_ gently — leads her hand towards the built-up bedding. She thinks there could be more, here, than what has simply been left to hang in the air, that he could so easily take her closer in his arms or tilt his head just _so_ to claim her in the way she finds herself desperately wanting with each moment that ticks past. But the man — _Josiah_ — seems to want to indulge, to breathe in the way he dances around her with his words, like the entire thing could be even more delicious than the primal act itself.

The mattress depresses slightly underneath her with a kind of feathery lightness and he’s sitting close to her, with shoulders bumping together and his long, lithe legs crossing one over the other.

She hadn’t given so much as a glance to the white set of cups he had provided for them both, a thin, blue line surrounding each with tiny leaves as decoration. They’re the usual fair; simple, plain and not too feminine in the delicacy of the china. But with a raise of the brim to her lips again, she catches sight of the strange interior.

“ _Playing cards_!” She breathes out suddenly in amazement and immediately lowers the cup to peer into. Her tea swishes back and forth with leaves gathering darkly at the bottom and she can’t quite see, yet, the full design.

There’s another approving kind of hum close in her ear.

“Do you believe in fortune, my dear?” Josiah says almost languidly and she finds, for a moment, his accent dropping in and out. She’d found it strange to begin with earlier that night; nobody around here spoke with such a brash, brassy tone that carried effortlessly but sounded _learnt_ , like a school teacher had drilled it into his brain from an early age. But now — _now_ the edge seemed to be tossed away as if it were a scarf to be discarded once in the comfort of one’s home. A crack in the veneer it _wasn’t_ ; more, as if, it had softened in the dull light of the caravan around them.

The heat returns to her cheeks at the sudden thought.

“Fortune?” she wills her skin to cool desperately.

He doesn’t answer her straight away; instead, she watches with growing interest as with a quick drain of his remaining tea, he turns the cup over and places it squarely on the saucer, giving a light tap once, twice. With practiced carefulness he then flips it over and gently tilts it between them.

She can see, then, every card of the deck drawn intricately into the fine china, specks of red and black denoting each set they belonged to. Around the brim she reads the words, _The Cup Of Knowledge_.

“Ah, the eight of hearts and a matching jack,” Josiah points a finger towards a certain dreg of tealeaf that had caught on the drawing. “Two fine cards _indeed_ to be seen at the bottom of one’s cup.”

Her brows knit together with intrigue when he flicks his gaze to her, the saucer resting on his lap and an arm bending to prop himself up against the mattress.

“And what does that mean?”

He smiles in a way that catches her breath.

“Our friend _number eight_ here brings news of an unexpected gift, or perhaps a kind of visit — “ Josiah pauses then, to let the knowledge sink into her. “ — as for our _jack_ , well he seems to think I’m much overdue for the presence of a younger admirer.”

 If she could flush several shades darker she was sure her body would try, her cheeks darkening suddenly and feverishly and she can’t help it, then, with his gaze shimmering and sparkling like the night sky at her. She lets a kind of breathless “ _oh_ ,” escape her again and she wants to say something, anything but all she finds herself doing is draining her own tea.

“ _There_ , you better read mine then,” her cup and saucer is thrust at him in much the same way she had presented his gloves earlier and she fights the urge to bury her face in her hands. Instead, she turns her head and listens to the same ritual he had diligently done before.

One tap, two taps and she’s trying so hard to return her skin to it’s normal colour, if only to see her own fortune presented to her and maybe — or perhaps just a little _more_ than a maybe — to see the look in his eyes once more. It’s _dangerous_. But if she were afraid of a little danger, she concedes, she wouldn’t have found herself in his caravan past midnight on a warm, humid night.

“Aren’t we _fortunate_ today,” Josiah sing songs and she’s turning eagerly, then, before she realises. Her cup winks up at her in the light and she thinks she sees a dredge clinging to a spot of red. “A _king_ has made himself known, a _king of diamonds_.”

It doesn’t take a genius to realise he’s pausing for effect again.

She bites.

“Go on,” she says almost impatiently. Shivers at the way he adjusts his arm to only _just_ brush against her back.

“Well,” he starts and the softness in his tone returns. “This _king_ in particular has word of an older gentleman that’s appeared, rather _mysteriously_ it seems, before you.”

She swears her heart clammers so strongly in her chest that he _must_ hear it. And yet she can see with the cup tilted carefully in her direction that there was still another dredge caught on the side.

“And what else?” her voice leaves her like a whisper.

Josiah reluctantly pulls his eyes from hers to study the other marking.

“A _nine of hearts_ ,” he draws his gaze back up and she thinks she can see his eyes trace her lips for a moment, before settling on her again. “ _The card of wishes_ , as they say.”

There’s another pause then, not for any kind of dramatics, but rather to feel the air dance with a type of electricity she’s never felt before. A hypnotic energy that draws her closer to him, makes her want to do all kinds of things she hadn’t _dared_ dream of, spurs her on and taunts her so deliciously that she can’t hold back, _won’t_ hold back.

“What kind of wishes?” she urges him.

Josiah doesn’t answer her this time, only angles his head consciously towards her.

“I think I’d rather like to kiss you now, if you don’t mind.”

There’s a dull sort of thudding in her ears and she thinks she nods, or gives him some sort of notion that she wants nothing more than just _that_ , because suddenly his mouth is touching hers and she _melts_.

He kisses her, then, with the uttermost care, with a sort of un-hurriedness that makes her think that he wants to savour every _single_ moment and that he has all the time in the world. Her skin tingles and prickles and before she can stop herself she finds a sigh leaving her lips and humming against his own.

Josiah pulls away with a breath.

“ _Magnificent_ ,” He says and those eyes are floating across her, taking in her flushed cheeks and hair threatening to spill into her face and she feels wanted, _desired_. Hands carefully remove the teacups from the bed and settle them safely on the shelf behind and then he’s drawing her against him.

She can’t help but kiss _him_ this time.

Lips quirk in surprise before gently, slowly moulding to her with more expertise than she had herself, and she finds it _thrilling_ that the wiser, older man would be so willing to take her. Have her. Claim her. He’s ferociously _debonair_ , exquisitely handsome. So planned, so poised in his movements that all she can do is turn to putty under his touch and let him do as he pleases.

And Josiah does just _that_.

Fingers tug at his own ascot, thread through the silk until it slackens and releases. The fabric is discarded quickly, efficiently, and with hands dancing over buttons he frees his skin and softly grasps for her wrists. He places her hands then, against his neck and chest and she feels his skin jump at the contact.

“ _Yes_ ,” He breathes in encouragement.

She touches him, delights in the feeling of hot skin giving way to her and a strong, wide chest dotted with dark hair. It’s course, she finds, but runs between her fingers and without question she draws her nails _just_ enough to elicit a noise that vibrates in his chest.

“Simply — “ he lets another appreciative sound escape him. “ — _divine_ , you are.”

Josiah reaches for her waist then, with lips hovering close to hers and gaze so hooded with desire that she lets all the heat rush back to her face at once and _indulges_ in it.

“Tell me,” he starts and she thinks through the burn she sees that _magic_ dancing in his eyes again. “What made you come here, to me?”

There’s a million different thoughts that race through her mind, that try to flick to the centre of her attention, that all sound a little strange, or hopeless or _desperate_. She can barely think straight with the way his breath blows gently, warmly against her cheek, how he smells delightfully of the tea they drank, how his thumbs seem to trace tiny, intricate patterns into the fabric of her dress.

She tries to steady herself.

“I— I suppose, it’s like you said — “ the words are picked carefully before she seems to decide, to pick a path. “ — it’s _fortune_.”

Josiah tilts his head towards her neck and he’s murmuring then, against her skin that prickles in sudden delight.

“What if I told you, I left the gloves on _purpose_?”

A certain kind of excitement trills through her body at his words; an acknowledgement, a private thrill, a burst of energy that has every fibre of her being set alight in desire, in _want_.

She feels suddenly confident.

“And why would you do a thing like that?” hands travel up his chest to wrap either side of his neck, feeling the skin pulsing, reveling in the way he had only undressed so _slightly_ in front of her and yet she felt she was seeing _more_ of him. What lay beneath the polished, perfect exterior of a finely dressed man. A _magician_. A mystery onto himself and crafted so purposely that she was sure there were still numerous other, complex layers she’d never get to see.

He breathes then, removes himself from her skin, grasps her chin with gentle fingers.

“I had to _have_ you, didn’t I?” Josiah’s eyes were sparkling again. “But you must be honest with me, now.”

She thinks he’s a little too fond of pauses, of dramatic moments that admittedly seem to take her breath away regardless but stop her in her need to keep _moving_. As if to spur him along, she traces her fingers into his short hair and reaches for the strands he had carefully slicked back, gently undoing them from their predetermined path and letting them fall a little softer against his forehead. With surprise, she realises he suddenly looks younger; like a roguish star on the front of a dime novel, moustache and all.

Her cheeks flush again.

Josiah seems caught, then, between wanting to kiss every inch of her, to kiss her neck and her chest and everything else that lay beneath her clothes so tantalizingly, to shower her with adoration. But instead he stills; grasps her hands in his at the nape of his neck.

“My little _jack of hearts_ , oh how I see the beauty of youth in you,” his words are far too poetic for a man that was quickly disheveling before her. There seemed to be more caught on his tongue. “Are you simply positive that you want to dance with a _king of diamonds?_ ”

Eyes search her then, with more clarity than they had since the teacups were long discarded. She knows that he had guessed her; figured her out. A part of her thinks she should feel embarrassed or maybe hurt that it would be so painfully _obvious_ that she had never been with a man before.

She’s finds, with her own growing certainty, that she’s anything _but_.

“ _Yes_ ,” she answers without hesitation, as if she can’t imagine doing anything else. And she _can’t —_ she’s desperate to feel his mouth on hers again, to know what he _feels_ like, to satisfy the rumblings in her body that had begun much earlier in the evening. There’s a look in Josiah’s eyes for the briefest of moments, as if to really — _honestly_ — check that her words were truthful.

And then, seemingly satisfied with her answer, the _twinkle_ returns.

A hand grasps her chin.

“I _suppose_ one must be taught,” His tone drops without warning, settling in his throat and reinginiting her senses into a pleasant sort of tingle. “And I do say you’ve gone and picked _quite_ the partner.”

She’s leaning forward willingly, beckoning him with her gaze to start where they left off, to continue and keep going and going and going until she doesn’t know right from left. But curiosity gets her once more at his mischievously-laced words.

“Why’s that?” She takes the bait.

Eyes flick over her mouth.

“Shall I lead, then?”

It’s not any kind of answer and she doesn’t expect it to be at this point. Instead, with cheeks that buzz so deliciously warm and lips that glisten, she lets him pull her gently off the bed and standing in front of him.

Josiah’s gaze travels over her body.

Hands go for her belt, first, a decorative little thing that easily falls from her waist and is placed a little too ceremoniously to the side, as if he had every intention of putting it back on later. With the bed raised on wooden shelves hidden behind curtaining, she finds herself almost at eye level with him; every touch, every float of his fingers across her dress to find buttons, clasps, things to carefully undo is matched with an unwavering focus that starts to leave her breathless, wanting _more_.

Her outer skirts drop to the floor. And then Josiah turns her gently with back towards him.

Skin slowly revealed to him, she shivers, _tingles_ as he presses his lips to every inch uncovered, lace camisole removed with her shift until she’s bare.

“ _Exquisite_ ,” she thinks she hears under his breath and then the word is trapped to the small of her back with a sealed kiss.

He leaves her only in her stockings and garters that _just_ hide her; a part of her she hadn’t dreamed of unraveling in front of a man, that hadn’t shuddered and ached so much to be touched, that had never felt quite so _alive_. It’s fortune, she muses. That a man so whimsically _mysterious_ would be the one to do this to her.

Josiah raises himself off the bed with arms that draw her back towards it. He plants himself, then, in front of her as she had been with him.

”if we’re to dance, my dear little _card_ ,” he says with a voice that hovers somewhere between a teasing tone and a low, purely seductive register that sends heat straight to her stomach. “I shall need your help.”

She finds her hands placed on his waistcoat, hovering over the buttons in such a way that it’s clear what he requires of her. But then, with a deliberate, slow kind of movement, Josiah lowers her touch.

She feels _him_.

Feels _it_ , strained against his slacks with a tightness that makes her body buzz louder, stronger than anything before.

“ _Oh_ ,” the sound escapes for the second time that night and she hears her voice laced with something altogether _foreign_.

Josiah is pulling her hands up again and she’s following, fingers desperate at buttons and wanting nothing more than to see him, feel him under her touch, skin against skin. The silken fabric easily comes away and he shrugs out of it with less care than he had afforded her own clothes. She tugs, then, at his white shirt already half undone, unclips suspenders with golden, glinting clasps, doesn’t even glance at the pile of clothing accumulating on the floor.

He’s bare chested in front of her and she takes a brief, selfish moment to look, really _look_ at what she had run her fingers over earlier. She doesn’t seem to see age catching up to him at all; rather, dark freckles dot his skin like little constellations and hair makes a path straight down, and that same broadness to his shoulders, his chest, makes a perfect counterpart to his narrower waist.

She’s only half aware of his spats and shined shoes being kicked away, of trousers pushed down and union suit left clinging to his bottom half. Because Josiah is kissing her again with a kind of reckless abandon he hadn’t let himself show, with a desire that pants through his whole body.

She obliges. _More_ than obilges.

Lips pluck at her own, taste her mouth, lead her to open against him. She thinks it rather _is_ like a dance with the way he darts his tongue from hers and encourages her to follow, teaching her the steps with a growing, pulsing heat.

With a snap her garters loosen and she feels, thrillingly, his hands deftly rolling her stockings down her legs one after the other. There’s a kind of practiced knowing to how he unhooks her belt so easily — the offending item is gone quickly, smoothly.

And then gentle hands reach for her.

Fingers trace, then, with the uttermost _lightness_ , a shadow of a touch that has her body thrumming in anticipation. Josiah hums against her lips.

“A _treasure_ ,” he says, and she thinks he sounds far more breathless than he’s trying to let on. “May I see?”

Every fibre of her being resonates for simply nothing _else_ , but with hazel eyes that meet hers again questioningly, gently, honestly as if she _were_ the most precious gem in the world, she nods in affirmation.

If only to feel _him_ on her.

Josiah bends and captures her lips once more and then hands are on her thighs and he opens her.

She sighs with shaky breath. _Pleasantly_ shaky.

There’s a certain kind of wave that passes through when she feels his fingers dip into her glistening folds, where she’d only ever touched herself late at night with a romance novel tucked in the crook of her elbow. He moves expertly, with a digit that runs down one side of her inner fold and then the other, and just misses the spot she wants him desperately to touch.

Her head lolls. Hand grabs his arm.

“Oh _please_ ,” she hears herself saying before she realises the words have even escaped.

Those dancing eyes are back on her.

“Could it _be?_ ” He murmurs, with fingers that circle so painfully close. “Has my young admirer ventured here before?”

She wants to nod, to make him move and bring her closer to the release she feels she’s been holding all night. The teasing, the seduction, every little word he’s said to her with hidden meanings laced so _deliciously_ that her head feels like it won’t stop spinning, _can’t_ stop spinning.

“ _Yes_ ,” she chokes out. Finds her own sense of propriety stopping her from admitting anything more.

“How _lovely_ ,” Josiah regards her like seeing a Monet for the first time, and then without warning he flicks his thumb straight over her pink, swollen nib.

With pleasure her hips buck, feels the first coil building in her stomach, relishes in how good his thicker touch feels against her. There’s a sound that leaves her throat that she can’t hold back — like a _mewl_ and a _gasp_ and a _sigh_ colliding all together at once.

He seems satisfied at her reaction and fingers move with a more pressing air, as if no longer afraid to break her like a porcelain doll. She thinks she’s anything but; with thighs already shaking and elbows bracing her against the mattress, she’s the picture of _need_ , of want.

Josiah moves to slicks a digit into her then and seems to lose a little bit more of his resolve.

“Oh _yes_ ,” a sigh pulls through him. “truly _stunning_ , and yet — “

She hears him stop, with words caught and gaze firmly on her and finger pulsing, slowly, _deliriously_.

His free hand moves, then; buttons comes loose and soft, black fabric inches down his waist and he steps out of it with more elegance than she had him pegged for at this point. Through half lidded eyes she sees him _properly_.

He stands thick, curved under darkly curled hair and she finds herself reaching for it with no preamble or question presented to him. Instead she revels in the way he _sighs_ above her. Skin is impossibly taut and he feels deliciously _heavy_ in her hand.

“ — I think I must _have_ you.”

She’s not afraid, or worried or filled with any kind of trepidation when he lifts himself onto the bed, gathering her in his arms and laying her head back against the pillow. If anything, she can’t help but drink in the _look_ in his eyes; not as if he intended to sate a ravenous hunger, or feast upon her flesh — not at all. Rather, like he was _treasuring_ her.

“Look at you,” Josiah sighs again with the air of a man simply _taken_. “how could I _not_ have you.”

There’s the sensation of his hand drifting between her and she feels it then, the way he grips himself and presses ever so gently against her wet centre.

“I’d like that, a whole lot — “ she’s dimly aware of herself saying but she’s so immersed in the way he teases her, moves to slick himself up and down her folds and she holds him a little tighter.

“Would you?” he asks, then, as if really checking for permission again or maybe she thinks, he’s just basking in her words the same way she had with his. The knowledge thrills her, _unravels_ her a little more.

Josiah pushes then, sinks himself slowly into _just_ the first inch of her opening and the sound that escapes his throat is nothing short of music to her ears. Hands cup her cheeks and he’s kissing her with a deliberate sort of air, an almost _thank you_ parted onto her lips, but she’s not really sure. She only knows, in that moment, that she’s starting to feel _heavenly_.

With every slow, shallow thrust he moves a little deeper, stretches her a little more, rocks her soothingly into the sensation of being entirely full, complete with him inside her. It feels a little uncomfortable at first, more tight than the fingers she’d used on herself in the privacy of her bedroom, but then her body relaxes into it and — _oh_.

**_Oh!_ **

Without warning she tears her lips from his to stare with wide eyes and hand gripping his hair.

Josiah’s eyes sparkle. _Mischievously_.

“Shall I do that again?” His voice hangs teasingly in her ear and then his gaze is holding her, watching as he angles his hips just _so_. She feels him brush against a particular spot inside her and it sends her body buzzing, thrumming, _tingling_ to every corner of her toes.

She moans.

“Yes, _just_ like I want to hear —“ he coos approvingly.

He settles his hips back slightly then. Thrusts just enough, she feels, for the tip of his head to play at her sensitive entrance. She’s moaning shamelessly again and wraps her arms around the underside of the pillow, willing the fabric to hide her face or cool her fiery cheeks or simply _squeeze_ the pleasure of out her.

“Such a _sight_ ,” Josiah’s head tilts, teases above her lips. “You’re coming undone already, my little card.”

She’s aware that she must be flushed to high heavens, that her hair is falling down, that her skin begins to sweat against his. And yet, with hands gripping her thighs and the slow, building sensation of his thrusts, she doesn’t care. She’s so overcome with the knowledge that _he_ was taking her, that _he_ was having her and relishing in her and cradling her so _gently_ in his arms.

Orgasms are not a new world to her; she’s brought herself there before, like a little secret between her and her books, but not like _this_. With suddenness she finds the wave crashing, pushing her over and her body feels as though it’s alive with _hundreds_ and _thousands_ of stars that try to escape through her skin. She pulses deeply inside and she grips him, desperately, as he thrusts her through it.

There’s kisses placed all over her then, all over her nose and her cheeks and her eyes that flutter shut and squeeze water from the corners. She doesn’t cry from anything painful; only the immense _pleasure_ that rakes through her.

Josiah soothes her down from her high with a gentle rocking of his hips against hers, with an arm that cushions her head, with eyes that glitter and shine. He stays, like that, for what feels like a lifetime. Back and forth, to and fro. As if to to lull her into a steady pattern where all she feels is how full he makes her again, _and again_.

“Oh, you’ll be the death of me yet — “ lips capture hers and she hears it, a strangled kind of noise that matches the quickening pulse of his skin inside her.

She’s watching then, in the fizzling afterglow of her high, as he reaches for himself from between her legs and produces his glistening, _throbbing_ length. It’s a sight onto itself; Josiah sits back on his knees and with a squeeze of the reddening head he comes, _beautifully_ , with mouth agape and liquid spilling over his fingers. She thinks she’s never seen anything more erotic in her _life_.

He releases a satisfied sort of moan, that rumbles deep in his throat and sends his taut, lithe muscles relaxing slowly in his shoulders.

It’s a long moment before hazel eyes lazily open to her.

Regard her below him.

“ _Oh_ ,” she finds him saying with a warm kind of smile. “Oh _yes_ — “

With hands deftly, _tiredly_ reaching for a handkerchief — that she thinks could be a little too well placed beside the teacups —  Josiah curls himself around her, pulls her softly towards him, reaches down to wipe the silk fabric across her thighs. The movement is almost serene; he cleans her before he cleans himself with strict carefulness even in the wash of his fading orgasm.

“Here,” she’s reaching for the material. “Let me — ”

Eyes shimmer at her, perhaps a little more tiredly than they had when she had first sat on the cozy, nook of a bed.

“No, it’s quite alright,” He murmurs. And before she can do anything about it, he wraps his fingers into the handkerchief. “I can take care of it.”

Not a moment later he’s cradling her again, dimming the gas lamp by the bed, pulling the blanket lightly over them.

She feels a certain kind of safeness wrapped in his arms then; not like she wanted to be there forever, or to suddenly expect a marriage proposal, or for her long days working behind the bar to be over. But that she was _satisfied_. That she couldn’t imagine, in any kind of way, being taken care of so wonderfully as he had done. That perhaps, she’d dance again with the _king of diamonds_ , if fortune wrote it so in the cards.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things to note! The kind of cups that Josiah owns are actually period correct and became very popular in the early, 20th century. These ones in particular combine Tasseomancy (tea leaf readings) with Cartomancy (playing card readings). There's some very interesting articles online, but I mainly used the very simple definitions of the cards to fit the story best.
> 
> I'd also like to think that Josiah has a bit of actual magic running through his veins; you'll note that the gloves disappeared once they had served their purpose, that he already had tea brewing, and that he knew she was coming. Do with that what you will. There's a lot of supernatural vibes to the Red Dead Universe, and given Josiah's love of card tricks and magic, I don't think it's entirely impossible that he dabbles in other things.


End file.
